


Drive Others to Frenzy, Drive Others Mad

by Sineala



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Community: ninth_eagle, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the festival of Hilaria, Marcus is intrigued by a stranger who is not, perhaps, as strange as he first seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drive Others to Frenzy, Drive Others Mad

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 1 of the second ninth_eagle Fanmedia Challenge; I thought I would have some implausible fun mixing Roman religion and a few treasured fandom tropes. The title is from Catullus 63.

Marcus had entirely forgotten what day it was, until the drumming started. The noise from the forum, in the town itself, was faraway, and though it did not sound quite as well-attended as the processions in Italy, the shouting was no less frenzied and raucous. All at once it put him in mind of harsher cries, battle and blood, and he winced and dropped his stylus. It clattered, hollowly, on the tile of the atrium.

Esca looked up at the sound, his face twisted in concern. "Marcus, what's wrong?"

They should not have come to Calleva now. Oh, his uncle had invited him, the farm could be handled by their neighbors for a few days, and it should have been no problem at all -- if he had only remembered what else happened in spring.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly, for Esca was still frowning.

"Is it the drumming?" Esca nodded, then; Marcus had not thought his face had shown the answer, but apparently it had. "What is it?"

Marcus stared at the floor. "A festival," he murmured. "It is the last day of the Hilaria. Not one of my favorites. It honors the Magna Mater."

His father had taken him to Rome, when he was not more than five, and the visit had happened to coincide with the Hilaria, the festival of Cybele. The revelers had carried the black statue of her through the streets, proudly. The Galli, dressed as women, had smiled and laughed. Even now Marcus could remember the scars on their skin, the reddened weals; his father had whispered to him how they had beaten themselves bloody for the goddess, flaying at their own skin with whips, to say nothing of the... other wounds. It was an improper thing. Phrygian. Eastern. And yet it had reached even here, the edge of the empire.

He had been too young then to understand why it must be so, that Rome would have fallen had she not learned to worship Cybele, and he had known only that the whole thing had terrified him. Even now that he should have known better, he still could not suppress the unease.

"Ah," said Esca, a quiet noise of comprehension. "Is she the one whose priests--" And then he shut his mouth, very quickly, and he looked distinctly more pale than he had a few moments ago. Marcus did not blame him.

"The very same." He felt ill at the thought as well. It was one thing to have it done as a punishment, but Marcus could not understand a man who would willingly... unman himself. "That is not today, though," he added, to try to make Esca -- or himself, really -- feel better. "If there are any new Galli here, it will have already happened a few days ago. Today is only merriment."

Esca's eyes lit up. "Merriment, eh?" 

Marcus nodded. "You should go if you want; I will stay here. It is never a day I have liked. It is too much about trickery for my taste."

"What sort of trickery?" Esca still did not stop smiling; one of the things Marcus had learned about him, to his eternal bewilderment, was that Esca enjoyed jokes. He never would have suspected it of the man, when he had been his slave -- but then, it had not been much of a time for joking.

It was not, he supposed, real trickery if it was permitted, if everyone knew it was a joke; it was only that it felt dishonest. "It is a sort of masquerade," he allowed. "Men dress up as other men they know and seek to imitate them. Usually they pretend to be officials they do not like, some magistrate or other, and everyone is amused. Not everyone does this, of course; many come just for the spectacle of it, to see the Galli and the goddess and the drumming, since they are secret the rest of the year."

Esca looked thoughtful for long moments. "I think I would like to see that," he said, finally. "You do not mind if I go alone?"

"Certainly not!" 

Marcus watched as Esca stood up and made for the rooms where their bags were stored from the trip; he wondered what Esca was getting.

Cradling one of the saddlebags in his arms, Esca returned to the atrium with a strange, determined grin on his face, and Marcus grinned back to see it, his heart entirely lightened, full of a sudden happiness. It was at times like these that he wondered that Esca had never noticed how he felt about him, for surely it was plain to see.

But Esca only tilted his chin in the direction of his bags. "Clothing."

They had brought their finer clothing as well, not knowing what sort of dinners might be required of them; of course Esca was going to want to wear his best braccae, his most colorful tunic.

"Not changing here?"

Esca shook his head. "I don't want to dirty anything on the walk over." He was always so sensible; of course the paths were muddy, since it had been raining lately. "I'll find somewhere in town."

"Enjoy yourself, then!" Marcus raised a hand in farewell.

Esca's smile in return was a queer thing, very strange indeed. "Oh, I will."

And then he was gone.

* * *

It was ridiculous.

Esca had only been gone a few hours. A few hours, Marcus repeated to himself, firmly. There was no reason he should miss him, and even if he should, it should certainly not be so soon.

He was hardly aware of deciding to do it, but all at once he was standing, striding across the house in search of his boots and cloak.

"Uncle!" he called out. "I'm off to the festival after all. Eat dinner without me."

His uncle's voice was muffled through the closed curtains of several rooms. "All right, Marcus. Have a good time."

He wasn't five years old anymore, he thought as he stepped outside into the late-afternoon sunlight. There was nothing to fear. Besides, he would find Esca, and surely if it was to be ill for him, anything would be better with Esca there.

* * *

The drumming was still there when he reached the forum, but the pace of it was less urgent, less frenzied, and he could see small knots of people here and there, talking and laughing as friends do, gesturing with wine-cups, picking at food from the sellers. It was as any other festival, now, and knowing that was calming. But he did not see Esca anywhere in the forum, and that at least was an unnerving thing.

As he stepped backwards to try to take in more of the place, he bumped into a heavy-set older man. He turned and noticed in one glance the shine of glimmering gold rings in the dimming twilight, a glimpse of fine bleached wool -- the magistrate? Marcus swore, inwardly. He would not have wanted to annoy the magistrate, not for anything.

"Here!" said Kaeso, with his usual officiousness, his voice clipped. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Sorry!" said Marcus, hastily. "It was an accident, magistrate--" he began, as nicely as he could, and then he stopped, staring. It wasn't Kaeso.

The stranger laughed. "That convincing, eh?"

Marcus, dumbstruck, could only nod.

"Come, now," the man said, grinning. "It's all in fun. Relax. Enjoy the festival!"

Marcus made himself smile, a false air of happiness, but then he thought about it. Enjoy himself. He could do that. He could have a cup of wine or two; then perhaps he could find Esca. That couldn't hurt anyone, could it?

"You wouldn't happen to know where the nearest tavern is, then?"

The man who wasn't Kaeso laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's more like it. There's a good one just over there." The hand that had been on his arm lifted to gesture toward a sign at the far end of the forum, painted with grapes.

Marcus realized he was truly smiling as he made his way to the tavern. Even without Esca, it would be well.

* * *

The tavern was dim, too dark to make out more than the roughest shapes of the crowd, of all the men Marcus was pressing past. The sole lamp at the other end of the room was, he hoped, where the tavern-keeper himself was. This was clearly the sort of establishment unwilling to spend money on good oil, or indeed -- he noted the distinct lack of anything resembling tables -- unwilling to buy anything that wasn't wine.

He squeezed between a hulking fellow and a slighter one and finally came face-to-face with a harried-looking man, who was clutching a wineskin in each hand and glaring at him.

"Well? What'll it be?"

Marcus opened his mouth. "I'll have--"

"Falernian," a man said from behind him, his voice low and rich with the accent of Italia. The very sound of it made Marcus suddenly homesick, a thing he had not felt in years. "Only the best for my friend here. And the same for me."

It was the man Marcus had pushed past, the shorter one. He turned, for a better look, but then someone else shoved his way between him and the rapidly-dimming lamp, so he could not see again. The man was wearing his best clothing, with the end of his heavy toga draped over his arm; of course, he would expect nothing less from an Italian. And he had the height for one, too. That was all Marcus could see of him before the darkness obscured his features.

"You didn't need to do that," he said, suddenly awkward before the stranger.

He could see the man shrug in the dimness, just barely, and a sudden flash of white on his face that might have been a smile. "Can a man not buy a drink for a man? O, the times," he quoted, softly, and Marcus began to chuckle. Whoever this man was, he was definitely a Roman, to be educated so.

The stranger pushed a coin toward the tavern-keeper and took the cups as they appeared, handing one to Marcus. Marcus let himself follow the man further into the darkness at the edges of the room, where it turned out there was a table after all. He could have a drink, buy the man one in return, and then be off. It would be simple.

"Are you new here?" he asked, to be polite.

For some reason, this made the man laugh. "Not to Britannia."

Marcus took a sip of the wine. It seemed that the only thing that made it Falernian was it being twice the price, he thought, uncharitably, for it was harsh and barely watered. "Well," he managed as his throat burned, "welcome to Calleva, then."

The man gave another chuckle. "Thank you. I'm enjoying it very much."

Marcus squinted at him; he could just about make out, against the whiteness of the tunic, two darker stripes down the shoulders. A fellow equestrian, then. Just like him. "You've been posted here, then? Military?" It was the only thing he could think of; it would be rare to find a man at his age not a soldier.

But the stranger shook his head. "No. I've business in the countryside."

"Oh? I have a farm on the Downs."

More laughter, and he thought the man was still smiling. "I might head out that way."

He could only see the movement as shadows, the man ducking his head as if smiling, an oddly familiar motion, before draining half his cup. Suddenly the familiarity was gone, replaced by something Marcus hadn't seen in a while. Interest. The man wanted him. The way he was leaning in, the way he contrived to brush his leg against Marcus'. He was warm with desire, then all at once it mixed with a terrifying dread. He couldn't. He couldn't. What would Esca think if he found him with this man?

_He's a stranger_ , Marcus' mind insisted. _You won't see him again. You hardly come to Calleva._ Besides, he was hardly being unfaithful to Esca if he wasn't even with Esca to begin with. It wasn't as though he was waiting for the man. He'd be a long time waiting for that, because Esca had never-- would never--

He drained his wine-cup. "Might you?" he asked, smiling, with all the charm he had, trying to ignore the voice in his head telling him he was making a mistake.

There was a long pause, as if the stranger had found that surprising, and then the man's hand slid under the table, against his leg. Marcus reached out his own hand and laid it atop the man's slender fingers, feeling a shiver run through them.

"I might," the man said, low and inviting, and Marcus almost wanted to beg him to talk more just so that he could hear a voice that sounded proper, like home. There was a long, contemplative pause, and Marcus wished more than anything that he could see the man's face. But then he seemed to have reached a decision, for he put the cup down firmly. "Or," he said, his voice even quieter, "I might accompany you now. Somewhere closer."

Marcus swallowed nervously even as what felt like every inch of his skin tingled in anticipation. "Yes."

It didn't matter. It didn't. He wanted this.

* * *

Outside was in fact worse than inside, for the sun had set already and it was a cloudy night, the moon obscured. He still could not make out so much as the face of the man who was walking next to him, for they turned away from the torches of the forum and down a side street. His companion was still a moving shadow against the darkness. Why should he care what the man looked like, or what his name was? It would hardly take any time at all, and they would go their separate ways and never meet again.

The man's hand brushed against his, then lingered, deliberately, and Marcus shivered at the feel of it. Yes. It had been so long; he'd almost forgot what it felt like just to be with someone, to have them touch you, to touch them in return and know that you were pleasing them as well.

"Here," the man said, still with that perfectly-composed accent, tugging on a fold of his tunic. "I think this alleyway will do nicely, don't you?"

It wasn't love. It would be all right.

The alley was black, blacker than anything, and Marcus couldn't see the man next to him. He could only feel a hand slide up his arm. The man's other hand rested on his shoulder and then slowly slid to the back of his neck, to pull his head down. The man was probably as short as Esca, Marcus realized, and he felt another pang of shame at the comparison. And he wanted to kiss him first? Well, that was unusual, certainly. He hadn't anticipated that.

"Ah, yes," the stranger whispered, the words said with barely any sound. "Please." Marcus could feel the man's warm breath against his cheek, against his lips, and suddenly it was all wrong. He couldn't do this. This wasn't what he wanted, who he wanted.

He pushed the man's hands away and stepped back. "No."

"What--?" The voice was higher now, full of confusion and pain.

"I'm sorry," Marcus choked out. "I can't. I'm sorry. I have-- it's silly, but I-- there's a man I live with, my friend. I-- I'm in love with him. He doesn't know, and he's never going to, because he doesn't-- but I-- this-- I can't. You'll have to find someone else for the evening." That was as far as he got before his throat closed up entirely. His face was hot, and he desperately hoped the stranger would leave before he started crying.

Marcus heard a startled, indrawn breath, and then nothing except the sound of the drums from the forum. The man was not leaving.

"Oh, Marcus," said a terribly, terribly familiar voice, full of dismay, slow and wretched. "By all the gods, Marcus, I swear, I thought you knew it was me. I thought you were playing along, and then I thought, finally, at last, you wanted--"

"Esca?" He couldn't breathe. By Mithras, he couldn't breathe. "What kind of poor joke is this?" he cried out, suddenly burning with rage. "Did you plan to lure me here, all unknowing?"

"You said you wouldn't be here," Esca retorted, just as angry. "And you didn't notice that I'd taken your clothes?" Esca's voice dropped into the manner of speech that had fooled Marcus so well. "You couldn't hear me when I spoke? You weren't actually looking at me in that tavern? Really?"

Marcus twisted away, ashamed. "I couldn't see you. It was dark. And that isn't your voice. Who are you supposed to be, anyway?" None of the officials Marcus knew here had such a voice. His own voice was harsh as he tried to cover his feelings with more ire. 

There came a rueful laugh, and when Esca finally spoke, his voice was much more quiet. "Who do you know who talks like that? And wears your clothes? But I see now you will confess such things to a stranger more easily than to your own friend!"

"Oh." His face flushed even hotter, and suddenly the anger in him was all shame now. "Esca, I'm sorry, I wasn't going to tell you, you weren't supposed to--"

"Sorry for what?" He still couldn't see Esca, but he could imagine the glare. "You wanted me. You weren't going to fuck me because you were pining after... me. I'm here. What's the problem?"

He couldn't even keep up with the conversation, holding his hands out in the dark to make Esca slow down. "But you were joking, for the festival--"

Esca's hand closed over his.

"It wasn't a joke," Esca said softly. "I wouldn't joke about this. I knew it was you, and I thought you knew it was me, and I wanted this. I still want this. Do you?"

The clouds parted then, just long enough that he could see Esca's face. Esca was in his clothes, all right, though the toga was a little worse for the wear; he hadn't done well wrapping it, and it was dragging in the mud. More of it fell in the mud as Esca held out his other hand, and the look on his face was full of hope, his eyes bright.

"Not joking?" Marcus asked, once again.

"Not joking," Esca said, and he pulled his head down to kiss him as the drums in the forum beat out their joy.


End file.
